


Chapter 22 Outtakes and Missing Scenes

by Tenoko1



Series: It Started with a Fanfic Competition [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - X-Men Fusion, Awkward Conversations, Feelings, M/M, Therapy, X-Men References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 19:14:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14339199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenoko1/pseuds/Tenoko1
Summary: Outtakes from Ch. 22: Dean picks out furniture and meets Dr. Rachel Grey.





	Chapter 22 Outtakes and Missing Scenes

**Author's Note:**

> I actually totally forgot I set this aside. Contemplated if it was worth posting, but you may like it. I did. It just wasn't plot necessary, so I removed them.

Chapter 22

“Dean, you are not helping,” Charlie snapped, tapping her pencil in rapid staccato against the desk. “Give me something here!”

    He looked at her computer screen and the spread of open magazines and interior design books in front of him on the desk... and his mind stalled like an old engine.

    “Uh….”

    Dorothy leaned forward across the desk and gingerly took Charlie’s pencil away, then proceeded to collect the magazines and books into a neat pile and placed them by her feet. “We’ll get it done in time, Charlie. You can’t just overwhelm him and expect him to make a decision.”

“But--!”

She looked at him. “Dean, have you ever picked out or bought furniture?”

“No.”

Charlie made a frustrated growling noise.

Dorothy quelled her with a look. “Red, play with that thing you got. Dean? Let’s try a _different_ approach.”

    Grumbling under her breath, Charlie yanked open a metal drawer and pulled out a red and black y-shaped thing. Sulkily throwing herself back in her seat, she clasped it between thumb and middle finger, using her other to make it spin.

Dorothy as she laid a magazine in front of him. “Charlie is decorating the communal portions of the house in a mix of this general style,” she explained, tapping the glossy cover.

    “Country,” Charlie offered, “of varieties rustic, distressed, and chic.”

    Dorothy nodded and pulled the magazine back, leaving the desktop bare. “ _You_ only need concern yourself with _your_ room, Dean. The rest is taken care of. Do you have a style you prefer?”

He shook his head, making a helpless gesture and really wishing Cas was there to help him out, but it wasn’t like he had preference either, which was why Charlie was in charge and decorating with the apparent aim being: airy, welcoming, and warm. Potentially with a side of cozy, whatever that meant.

And Cas couldn’t help him anyway, because he and Sam were busy creating some semblance of classrooms on the lower level, as well as further warding the bunker against any of Rowena’s magic being used against them.

Which was smart given such a _dumb idea_ to begin with. But Sam’s earnest belief, matched with Dorothy’s cool confidence, was a deadly enough duo to dispel most of his initial concern. So while Sam and Cas were busy with enchantments and sigils, Dean was in Charlie’s office being grilled about _interior decorating_.

There was no justice in the world.

Dorothy placed a series of magazines and marked pages in front of him, each depicting bedrooms in a range of style, color, and lighting. “Which one do you like most?”

    He looked over each of them before pointing. “This one’s lighting is like mine, and has a window and door outside, too. Hell, the door where they’re taking the picture from is even in the right placement.”

    “Do you like the placement of the bed and the dresser in the room?”

    “I mean, yeah, I guess. It works.” He tapped one of the pages. “I like the way they painted this one interior wall cream. It goes good with the color of the wood.”

    She moved and shuffled again, keeping the one he’d pointed to and surrounding it by others. “Which bed style to you like most? Ignore everything else in the room.”

    “Something sturdy, but simple,” he said. “Something you can sit back against to read or watch tv.”

    Her eyes flicked to Charlie’s. “Something high with drawers for storage?”

    Charlie’s eyes drifted to her screen, gaze distant. “I can do that. For books, clothes, or weapons?”

    Dorothy retrieved and laid the blueprint of the second floor on the desk, indicating a door in his room leading to a storage area behind one wall. “I thought we could turn this into the weapon storage.”

    “So books.”

    Dorothy held up a finger and flipped through several magazines before she found the right one, spinning it around so both Charlie and Dean could see the dresser.

    “What if we did this? It had drawers, but also shelving. Clothes and books.” She withdrew the magazine and set it aside, waving. “Plus he’s got a closet.”

    “But then what about the bed drawers?”

    “ _Storage_ ,” Dorothy repeated, “like I said. Sheets. Quilts. A _few_ weapons.” She winked at him. “I suspect you sleep with one anyway.”

    He cocked a brow at her. “Don’t we all?”

    She chuckled. “Ah, point.” Using the confiscated pencil, she did a light sketch on the blueprint, a series of boxes and squares. “Bed here. Bedside table. Dresser here. TV mounted above it. Trunk or no?” she asked, and Dean noted she held the pencil in her left hand.

    “No,” answered Charlie. “Not if you want the bed for storage. Besides, that leaves it more open feeling.”

    The pencil moved. “Chair and ottoman in the corner?”

    “Storage ottoman?” Charlie nodded. “Yeah, I can do that.” She glanced at Dean, hand hovering over her mouse. He noted, belatedly, she’d gotten a desktop computer, the white color and wireless keyboard and mouse giving it a sleek, futuristic feel that didn’t match the dated furnishings of the office. “Furniture color preference?”

    “I don’t like the dark mahogany ‘compensating for my masculinity’ crap.” He thought. “And not all matching white, either. Any other color or colors is fine.”

    She drew back, frowning. “Now you know a good bit of the furniture in the house is going to be painted white…”

    He waved it away. “Yeah, that’s fine. That whole style works, probably because of how it’s usually distressed or has drawers painted a bright color. I just don’t want all white furniture in the bedroom. It doesn’t look like someone should live there.”

    Dorothy patted his knee, grinning at him. “See? You do have opinions and can decorate.”

    He rolled his eyes and looked to Charlie. “Is that all you need me for?”

    She turned her screen toward her and began scrolling. “Uh huh.”

    “Don’t forget you have that meeting with the finance firm this afternoon,” Dorothy reminded her, sliding the pencil into a Star Wars mug acting as a holder. “Dean? What have you got planned? Going help Sam and Cas?”

    “No,” he said from the doorway. “They’re probably talking, so I’m not gonna interrupt. I’ll be in my room doing some, ah, required reading.”

    She frowned at him, just as Charlie’s face snapped his direction. He winked and she grinned.

* * *

  
When the receptionist called his name, Dean stood up too fast, shooting from his seat like a soldier called to attention and making confusion flicker across her features before she was directing him through the door and to an office with a cracked open door.

    “Dr. Grey? Your next appointment is here.”

    “Come on in, Mr. Winchester,” the woman inside called. He looked to the receptionist who continued to smile politely in the practiced way women seemed to do whether they realized it or not. A chuckle came from inside the office. “I promise it isn’t a trap, Dean. You can even check, if you would like.”

    He poked his head in slowly, arching a brow. “Check how?”

    The woman inside was leaning against the front of her desk in open view of him, ankles and arms crossed, lips curling on an amused smirk. She was not at all what he’d been expecting, too young, for one. Early thirties with fair skin and hair like fire cut in a messy, layered bob, she was dressed in ripped jeans and black blazer over a red silk shirt.

    The door shut behind him as soon as he stepped inside, making him turn and frown. Even for formalities and business sake, he really didn’t like being closed in with her, but it would draw too much attention to reopen it.

    “Relax, Dean.” He looked at her, eyes narrowed. “The door is _shut_ , not _locked_. Even were it, I’ve no doubt you have enough tools and weapons on you to get it open.” She pushed away from the desk and moved around it to sit. “I’ve told both Charlie and Cas this, but please limit yourself on weapons for any future visit, will you? Have a seat. Would you like coffee or tea?”

    He sat as instructed, still watching her with open suspicion. “No thank you.”

    Her smirk grew and she leaned back in her chair. “Out with it, Dean. What are you thinking?”

    “Why I’m here?”

    “Partial truth,” she said. “What are you really thinking?”

    “Shouldn’t you know?”

    “And if I told you I did?”

    “Lady, I am not a fan of being psychoanalyzed, so can we just--”

    “Did Cas or Charlie tell you how they found me?” He frowned and she grinned. “You wanted to cut to the chase, did you not?”

    “A sheriff friend of ours. You are ‘uniquely qualified’ to help. I’m guessing that means you had your own run in with the supernatural at some point.”

    “No, actually. I am a rather gifted individual, though. In this world you’d call me psychic, but that’s a very limited description.”

    “This world?” He sat back with a long sigh through his nose. “Hell, are you another angel? Chuck’s _other_ long-lost sister?”

    She snorted. “Certainly not. There’s a limitless number of universes running parallel to each other, Dean. I am not native to this one, and in my world there are quite a few people born with special abilities, especially when their parents were gifted.” He raised a brow. She shrugged. “You wanted to cut to the chase. We can get to business once you know more about me for yourself, since that’s the sort of man you are. I’m simply trying to expedite it rather than beat around the bush.”

She gestured to herself, fingers splayed on her chest. “ _I’m_ an empath, telepath, and telekinetic who can walk between worlds. I came here because I didn’t want to keep fighting to save _my_ world one more time-- which I’m sure you, of all people, can understand.”

    He didn’t try to hide his eye roll. “Yeah, of course, makes perfect sense. So tell me: what am I thinking now?”

    “ _I_ think you’re being a judgmental asshole,” she countered, “but given you and Sam both tend to be extremely skeptical, despite your livelihood, I expected no less. Max reminded you earlier to trust Cas and Charlie if you could not trust me,” he jerked with a start, “and given that Charlie is a terrifying warrior and Cas is an angel who can read minds should he choose, do you not think it best to just buckle in and go with it?”

    “Mind reading is rude.” His eyes narrowed to thin slits. “What do you want?”

    “To help people.” She poured herself a glass of water from a tray on the corner of her desk. “Cas tells me you’ve accepted his invitation to move into the new house.” When he remained silent, she looked at him, waiting. He lifted a single eyebrow. She rolled her eyes and sat back. “Just because I know an answer doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear it. The interaction is part of the process.”

    “I’m not the client, _Dr_. Grey,” he answered steely. “Why am I here?”

    Her expression shifted, the smirk wiped away to intense seriousness. “What Cas is planning to do is very risky, Dean.” His brows knit. “I’d even go so far as calling it ‘dangerous’. As his family and his best friend, it’s imperative you know what to expect so you can help him as much as possible, rather than unintentionally inflicting harm, especially given you are now going to be the _only_ one living with him.”

    He sat up straighter. “Can it hurt Cas if he does it wrong?”

    “Cas is going to be a soldier fresh home from war. His grace is acting like a pain blocker, but with it gone literally _everything_ being held back will rush into the space left behind. Everything he is dealing with _now_ but _magnified_.” She leaned forward to grab a business card and held it out to him between two fingers. “Cas has my contact information, but you should, too. I’ve prescribed him an anti-anxiety medication to make the transition a little easier. I do not intend for him to be on them longterm if it can be avoided, but suddenly going, well, _cold turkey_ would be very unsafe.”

    Creeping dread had him wondering what it was she possibly thought he could do to help. It had him wondering if they shouldn’t rethink the whole thing, or if Cas cutting out his grace was going to send him into some sort of anaphylactic shock and withdrawals, trapped in a body that was immediately his enemy.

    “Does he realize it’s dangerous? He’s _already_ fighting whatever goes on up in his head!”

    “Castiel and I have talked rather extensively over this, so yes, he is aware. He has accepted those risks-- he is also in a bit of denial of what is to come. That’s his way of coping, convince himself he’s ready and can handle it by knowing what to expect. _That is not_ how mental illness and trauma recovery work.” She tilted her head. “Has Cas talked to you about his initial experience with losing his grace and becoming human?”

    He looked down. “When I kicked him out?”

    Contemplative silence filled the room, the feeling of her eyes on him making him hunch in shame of his actions, kicking him in the gut just as it always did. God, he’d failed Cas so much through the years, how the hell did anyone expect him to be able to do this?

    “Look at me,” she said. He flicked his eyes up just enough to comply. She was leaning forward, elbows on her desk and fingers clasped. “You made decisions in good faith that led to unexpected consequences. What you did left scars. ...But you were also put in the position of being emotionally blackmailed with your brother’s _certain_ death while having to have faith that a warrior older than the earth could take care of himself until you could fix it. Cas _knows_ that and has forgiven you for it. You know he has.”

Eyes pricking, he looked away, to the wall of white built-in bookcases, picking a random spot and focusing on it as he tried to force it all back down.

“I was so damn stupid.” He hated the way his voice cracked, coming out ragged and too honest.

“Dean, I think you need to forgive yourself for a lot of things, especially if the other people involved have.”

He glared at her. “I have failed him nearly every damn step of the way, so what makes you think I won’t fail him in this? That I won’t screw him over further? What’s left to break?”

“You’re here,” she stated. He frowned. “Dean, you are actively making a great deal of effort to do and be better. You’ve dedicated yourself to being better than you were before.”

He fixed her with a flat stare. “Mind reading is _rude_.”

She gave him a close-lipped smile. “It’s a House Rule. I know. You’re discrediting yourself in believing Cas and Charlie haven’t noticed the effort you’ve been making or shared with me the impact it has had on them. What this family unit means to them.” She shrugged. “Aside from the bit with Max earlier I haven’t read your mind, and in my defense, you’re very loud when anxious.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“One, be aware of what to potentially expect. Cas describes his initial experience as sensory overload. His suddenly limited human mind is attempting to work like an angel’s and translate new senses the best it can in woefully inadequate ways. He is forcibly changing his species. He may have days he can’t articulate what is wrong or why. He may have to forgive you for things all over again. May have to forgive himself. He will be experiencing everything in a completely new and different way. PTSD, triggers, moodiness, mood swings, depression, anxiety, nightmares. _All of it._ Or _none_ of it. We don’t know and won’t know until they happen. You are going to have to be patient and understanding.”

“How is _that_ gonna help him?”

“Media likes to present love as the Be All, End All: worth living for, dying for, killing for, or, worse, capable of a magical cure for real world problems.” She gave a slow shake of her head, eyes never wavering from his. “It is _not_. Love won’t fix the issue, Dean, but having it can make walking through the fire bearable.” She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I do not know what his transition will be like. Everything is different this time, for the better, but more has happened since his last, brief stint with humanity. I find it effective to hope for the best, but prepare for the worst.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Please remember to comment on fanworks as they take much longer to create than to consume! Always properly feed and water fanwork creators if you want them to thrive.


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